


What could have been

by itzteegan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Child Death, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rite of Annulment, Templar Cullen Rutherford, The Gallows (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27552307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itzteegan/pseuds/itzteegan
Summary: One night, Cullen has a nightmare that instead of standing against Meredith and the Right of Annulment she invoked, he carried out her order. To the letter.(I.e. culling all the mages means ALL of the mages, yes even the children, something that I don't feel like the fandom really acknowledges)
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	What could have been

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to the Dragon Age Fanfic discord I'm in for kickstarting this idea, and also kinda to George Lucas for the whole Anakin-Skywalker-killing-the-younglings sequence which heavily inspired this as well.
> 
> Also, sorry to Guinn and Cullen, I'm pretty sure the last fic I wrote with them I promised them some nice sexy time with no interruptions finally but alas ... it is not this day.

Coughing and sputtering, eyes burning, Cullen pushed forward, his duty in mind. Between the mages setting things alight and the other Templars putting fire to the libraries, the smoke was making things difficult to navigate. But he had a duty to perform, loathe as he was to do it, and so he pressed on.

He remembered well, back in the Ferelden Circle, when Uldred had taken over and captured him and other Templars, torturing and killing them one by one. When he was finally rescued by Warden Cousland - long before she became the Queen and Hero of Ferelden - he’d insisted then that they had to enact the Right of Annulment. What was the Right if not for situations like that, when blood mages ran amok, converting and slaughtering in their wake? How could they trust that any “good” mages left were not already possessed? What if they hid it and sprung it on the Templars once everything settled down, drawing them into another trap that this time they could not escape from?

But Warden Cousland hadn’t heeded his warnings, had saved First Enchanter Irving and brought him to Gregoir, who had stayed the Right. He had not agreed with it, had fought it tooth and nail, but at the end of the day, the Knight-Commander’s word was law, and there was nothing more to be done.

In Kirkwall, however, it was world’s different.

Here, Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard hadn’t hesitated to invoke the Right, even though the Chantry had been destroyed by a singular apostate. It didn’t sit quite right with him, truth be told. The Circle mages hadn’t even had anything to do with Anders’ actions, why should they be put to the sword? But too much blood had been spilt already, too much animosity between the mages and the Templars here to ever hope to reign it in. How could it have led to this? And why was he going along with it? Even as he stalked the halls, smiting and putting mages to the sword left and right, still he questioned the necessity. He prayed fervently, reciting the Chant as he hoped the Maker would forgive him, that the mages who begged and pleaded for their lives would go to his side without malice for him. He was only doing his duty …

Right?

So then why did he feel this way?

Tears ran in rivulets down his face, though whether they were caused by the stinging smoke or the roiling ball of conflicting emotions in his chest, he couldn’t say. He didn’t want to think about it, only wanted to finish his duty and then return to the Knight-Commander as quickly as possible. As a result, he blocked it out as much as possible, the screams, the tearful begging. If they fell to their knees in front of him, it was just an easier target, or so he told himself.

Just up ahead, there was a closed door, one that led to an innocuous office, he knew. But there should be a window in there, and he desperately needed some fresh air. Bursting through the door, he took a few lung fulls of breath, staggering ever so slightly as he sheathed his sword and moved to lean against the desk. He wasn’t done, but he needed a rest, needed it so desperately. _Just a few minutes_ , he promised himself.

Then, eyes appeared, peeking out from under the desk, from behind the bookcase, from around the table. Eyes that turned into heads, that turned into a little group of children. His breath stuck in his throat as he realised that a group of young apprentices had been huddling in this room, hiding from the carnage that raged on in the Gallows. Tears stung his eyes once more. _Them? Even them?_ he wondered in bewilderment, even though in his heart he knew the answer. Why oh why did this have to fall to him of all people?

One of the young ones - she couldn’t have been much more than six - approached him, voice trembling as she cried, “Knight-Captain Cullen, what’s going on? We saw abominations in the hallway and hid in here. Have you come to save us?”

His hand trembled and his heart clenched. _No, child, I’m not here to save you. Not the way you think_. Instead of answering her directly, he drew his sword, the sharp sound stinging the air around him, somehow louder than the screams and the yelling outside the room. The children flinched, their eyes wide as they drew back from him, and he offered a prayer for their souls as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Their screams set alight a fire within him, tears streaming down his face as he staunchly recited the chant aloud, a piece of him dying off with each one he put his sword through.

“Blessed are they who stand before the the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter …” _But they are children! Truly, can they be corrupt, even as they hid from their fellow mages?_ “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.” _This is my duty, I am pledged to follow the Knight-Commander’s orders, the Right of Annulment must be carried out …_ “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written …” _Maker, take them to your side, ease their passage and their suffering_.

Unlike before, in the Chantry, in the _calm_ , these versus offered him no peace as he put the young apprentices to the sword. There was a point in his chest that felt as if it tore open, bleeding freely as the children’s blood stained the floor beneath his feet. Reeling, he stumbled back, sight blurred between the tears and the smoke, and as he gasped for breath, everything else slowly came into focus and he saw …

The bodies. Small bodies scattered around the floor, faces twisted in fear, little limbs splayed as they’d tried to get out of his way. But with his years of experience, they were doomed from the start, no hope to resist in themselves.

Closing his eyes, he could see them still, hear their pleading echoing over and over in his head. They’d trusted him, come to him for protection, for comfort, and he’d run them through. Why? Because it was his duty? It seemed a piss poor excuse, even now as their blood cooled on the floor. His whole body trembled as the enormity of his actions began to catch up with him, his sword clanging harshly against the stone floor. As he opened his eyes, he saw her, the little girl who’d come forward, who’d asked him for help, whose only crime was to simply _exist_. Her eyes were open, staring at him, boring a whole through his very soul. Her accusing stare broke him, and as he broke out in a sweat and tumbled backwards into darkness, he could only muse with horror …

_Maker, what have I done?_

His body jerked upright, his stomach lurching even as he woke. He only had just enough time to grab at the chamber pot under his bed before he was heaving its contents into it, muscles clenching in protest. Meanwhile his mind reeled at the new nightmare that had sprung on him, horrified at the fact that while it hadn’t happened, _it very easily could have_.

And that was what scared him the most.

A soft hand smoothed over his back as he trembled, lying limply against the edge of the bed, eyes squeezed shut as he attempted to push away the disgust he felt even at his dream self. It hadn’t been real, he knew it hadn’t, but that didn’t help as he felt he could still smell the smoke, still hear the screams, still feel the blood splatter against his skin and armour, his steel sword carving through flesh like a warmed knife through butter.

Swiping his arm over his mouth, he rolled back onto the bed, breathing deeply as a sheen of cold sweat still enveloped his body. Guinn huddled up to his side, embracing him as she murmured in question, “Nightmare?”

He nodded, raising a shaky hand to swipe over his face, to try to gather himself in some way after … _that_.

Credit where credit was due, she didn’t push as she merely asked, “You wanna talk about it?”

Everything in him screamed to leave it alone, to not mention it, to bury it so deep within himself that no one else would ever know. Maker, who dreamed about killing _children_ after all? And how would Guinn react to that? Would she recoil, distance herself, end their relationship and avoid him entirely? It hurt, the thought that she could reject him off of his own tortured self-conscious.

_But wouldn’t that just be what I deserved, then?_

A larger part of him, however, rested in the knowledge of Guinn’s kindness, that they collectively had been through much together, and that he should share with her, to ease his mind if nothing else. He didn’t like the thought of burdening her, but she’d expressed before that she was open to talking if he needed it, and … Maker, he _needed_ to do _something_.

“It wasn’t Kinloch this time,” he began, not sure exactly how one began at confessing something at this nature, but he supposed it would have to do. “I … I was back in Kirkwall. Under Meredith. She had invoked the Right, and instead of standing against her as I did back then, I … I went along with it.” His breath caught and he tried not to choke as he admitted, “I was going through the Gallows, cutting down mages, whether they were abominations or not. There was fire, smoke everywhere. And then I …” He couldn’t keep the crack out of his voice, a sob tearing through his chest as he quietly revealed, “I found a group of young apprentices, just children. And … I had no choice. I killed them. I killed them _all_.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard to keep the bile at bay. Though the vision was only a machination, wasn’t real, it shook him to his very core. And now that it was out in the open and known, he dreaded to wonder what Guinn must think of him now.

She shifted, and then soft lips rested against his temple, bestowing him with a kiss he wasn’t quite sure he deserved as she cooed, “It’s alright, Cullen. It didn’t happen that way. You know it didn’t.”

Drawing in a shaky breath, he countered with, “But it _could_ have just as easily.” Why he was arguing the point, even he didn’t know.

Reaching around, Guinn pulled him close, resting his head just under her chin as she held him. “But it wasn’t, and that’s the important part. We can dwell on possibilities forever. And yes, we are capable of terrible things. But what matters is what you act on in reality. In these nightmares, you see the worst sides of yourself, what you could have become had you chosen differently. But you _didn’t_. And that’s what's important. Remember that. Remember that you made a conscious choice, and that those choices led you to the here and now. Take comfort in that, that you chose not to take the easy way and become something you didn't want to be."

Though he shuddered once, twice in her embrace, his words smoothed over him like a balm. She was right, he knew that, and he silently thanked Andraste that she’d sent someone so kind and so wise his way. Maker knew he needed it.

This journey he’d undertaken, it was far from over. The withdrawal still gripped him hard some days, the memories and possibilities still tortured him at night. But he had a safe harbour now, and as long as he held true to that, he felt he could make it through this storm.

Guinn’s fingers ran through his hair as she continued to murmur sweet, encouraging nothings in his ear. With the weight of the nightmare, he hadn’t thought it possible to fall asleep once more, but here he was, already beginning to doze. Holding on to her tightly, he buried his face in her soft skin, relishing in the feel of her warm, comforting weight against him.


End file.
